What has become of my unshed tears
Do they remain within, fossilized and mute?
I claw futilely at my wrists wishing that I could
Pluck them free as if a quill or a splinter
Yet they remain ripping holes in all my dreams
There is loneliness in futility
In the relentless casting of soiled dress
I’ve been too long a daughter
What emergency now remains
That I should be obliged to exit?
I can assure myself of a pulse
And yet life still does not carry on
For I have not been trained in life
Only in the alternate, survival
I also wrote a poem at Curious Scribbles today and another group of short poems I was going to post but then I wrote this and decided to go with this